


Five times Steven Gerrard didn't say goodbye, one time Xabi Alonso did

by tinybluehands



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinybluehands/pseuds/tinybluehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stevie and Xabi are kids and can't say goodbye; in which Stevie and Xabi are growns up and still cannot say it; in which Xabi leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't actually a 'romantic' fanfic, as I think the very intense friendship between Steven and Xabi hasn't been explored enough. There's obviously subtle hints at something more going on, but I wanted to leave it at that, and hopefully it works. At least a tiny bit.

 

The red lunchboxes opened with identical clicks. Xabi Alonso, Steven knew, was the type of boy whose sandwiches were a miniature work of art; finely layered, the bread crust carefully cut off, always shaped into neat little triangles, never into squares. That was exactly what one would expect from him. Xabi Alonso's sandwiches, Steven also knew, were in fact always an ugly mess. Simply because boys of sixteen never have a penchant for sandwiches.

That was the problem, indeed; Xabi was an exchange student, come all the way from the breezy shores of Northern Spain to this breezy little town in Northern England. His host family were good people (Steven had met him), but they could not be expected to wake up at the crack of dawn to make pretty sandwiches for the Spanish boy. He did his best - and it felt, Steven mused, it felt like a crack in the sturdy architecture of his personality, like moving from Spain had not directly touched upon him, but the lack of perfection in what he did, the small slip, it almost changed him - he did his best, yes, but still. For the past three months he had sat next to _Stevie_ in the cafeteria, munching thoughtfully on his new friend's extra sandwich.

 His new friend. They had become friends, yes. It was simple, it was the most natural way of tying two young people together. Not actual football, nor girls, nor parties where the beer flowed like the Mersey, not homework help or concerts and books. It was the exhilaration. The youthful heart racing, pumping simultaneously here and there; the red, red, red blood. The same shade of red in both of them and no one else. He shuddered. The unfolding of life, fiery red life, within one's self.

 'Thanks for the sandwich. Again.' he whispered.

 'No worries, mate.'

 He had had certain issues with settling in, though it was nothing serious. He was just a shy boy, whose command of the English language was decent, but infinitely poorer than his command of a football, for example. The football - that was how it had happened. There was a dusky air around them, the mournful yellowish lights of the street lamps reflecting in the waters of the Mersey. All the other boys had gone home, so he finally mustered the courage to go to this English boy, mutter his own name (three times, before Stevie got it) and that he would like to try a one-on-one.

 They ate in silence.

 There was an inky air around them and it was slightly past midnight as they finally sat down on the kerb, sweat mingled with excitement on their adolescent faces. It had been amazing; the ball had duly rolled from Xabi's left foot to Steven's - Stevie's - right foot, and then back again. His passing skills were amazing, and he could read in his bewildered gaze that he hadn't expected a scrawny boy from wherever-that-was to play up to these skills. He had played up. They had run incessantly, passionately, each of them roused by the ardor in the other, the breeze lashing at their ruddy cheeks like it used to, back in San Sebastian. He had felt like home. They just smiled at each other at the end, and Steven had thrown a careless "see you". But they knew that moments like this never subdue, that moments like this hide like ghastly felines in our conscience, and wake up and purr in the loveliest of moments, or scratch fiercely at your insides in the most painful of those. That moment was the start of a friendship.

 And here they were, their last lunch together. Selfishly, Steven wondered whom he was going to play football with, now that Xabi had to go back to Spain. He'd forgotten all of his old mates, ever since this wonder kid had shown up in town, with his Backstreet Boys haircut, his faint lisp and his ridiculously accurate long distance shots. They would play football together, while the rest would just be running aimlessly; it was nothing like he'd known before. They also did their homework together (Xabi was, as usual, perfect with everything, but required some help with his English),-

 'I will be leaving on tomorrow; you'll come to say goodbye, si?'

 - wasted hours on the Playstation, went out together - they were overwhelmingly different (Xabi was often uncommonly quiet, but never annoyingly so, he was easily self-assured, he seemed to have a way of effortlessly slipping into whatever environment he found himself in, always aware, and firm, and _fitting_ ; Steven lacked his balance, he was never lukewarm, but either white hot or ice cold, strangely outspoken now and then, awkward at times, the heart of the banter, sometimes frail, feral, ample), but they had struck an amazing balance.

 'Yeah.'

 _I'll miss you awfully_ , Steven thought. _I'll never see you again. It's strange. It's funny. You meet someone who actually feels like your friend_ \- Xabi was his first friend, but he would come to realize that some two years later - _so he leaves for bloody Spain_.

 'Yeah, I will.'

 He doesn't. They part there, shaking hands like adults after they had closed their red lunchboxes (one empty, the other one half full), a glimpse of their transcending boyhood and reluctant steps into manhood. Xabi beams warmly, thinking of how lucky he is to have found someone to share a lunch with ( _and he doesn't frown when I speak_ ). Steven forces a smile. That's how friendships end. He knows this smile is the best he can do. He says nothing else. He does not go and say goodbye the next day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not overtly romantic, but with undertones - and I guess I enjoy thinking these undertones would've actually been there. Enjoy :)

Who would have imagined that. _Who would've thought_ , he whispers, his breath whirling through his lungs - it felt like a breath he'd drawn about six hours ago. His heart throbs, and seems to do the occasional triplesault in his chest, but he relishes it. It is the pain in the writer's hand after days of work, the pain of the lovebite on the lover's neck, the piercing strain of muscles after. After. An enormous smile flutters in his light blue eyes, then sets on his lips. He laughs, touches the cold wall with his sweaty palms, breathes out.

'After winning the Champions League.'

That was good, that. Saying it aloud. Bloody good.

His mind races back to the beginning of the season. It was an uncommonly cold day for the last days of summer, and he was late to Melwood after trying to find his LFC wind jacket. But all this - and the salty gusts, and the leaves twisting to auburn, and the crumpled Liverpool Echo he hadn't bothered to read - adrenaline carried them in and out of his brain at a ridiculous pace. He got there in a rush, looking forward to meeting his new midfield partner, of whom he had been told nothing, he had heard nothing (the crumpled Echo flashed back for a second; he chuckled), he had been expecting nothing. Who would've thought. That was when it all began, he knew. Xabi fucking Alonso, complete with the droll haircut and the lisp. Admittedly, his English had improved.

'Stevie', he said. Just that. And they shook hands again, like they had done 6 years before - this time around, however, it was much firmer, tinged a little by the new captain-player relationship, yet just as meaningful. A bit uncomfortable, perhaps, as one doesn't always end up playing as a professional in the same team as one's childhood friend (who just _happened_ to be from a Land Far Far Away), but it was so loaded with friendship that none of them cared. A load that came to replace a 6 year old burden of never having said "goodbye".

He sits down among the brooms, dustpans - _the Champions League_ , the mechanic of his train of thought suddenly pulled the breaks for a second, seemingly to announce again throughout Steven Gerrard's body, _hello, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to remind you we've won the Champions League_ \- and suspicious buckets. He doesn't notice the thick layer of dust, or the chloride smell. He is still unsure of his breathing. He'd told the boys he'd be back in a jiffy, and came here to prevent his blood from boiling out of his veins.

Xabi Alonso, soon to become "Xabi Alonso, the passmaster", though Steven already knew that, had known it for a good while. Xabi Alonso in the red shirt with a liver bird on his chest, passing to Steven Gerrard, wreaking havoc wherever they went. It was outrageously easy. That sense of awareness which Xabi had quickly instilled into his own mind, and in less than a month they could've found each other on the pitch blindfolded. It clicked, like lunchboxes do when they open. Some praised Rafa Benitez, some praised Didi Hamann, some praised the supporters ( _You'll Never Walk Alone. Ever._ ) , but he knew, he knows, who had carried the team all the way to the Cup Final. Who had lifted the lads by the scruff of the neck and hauled them along, bruised and scratched. Who had scored the first goal of this insane night; who had scored the penalty that seemed to have passed through each and every Milan player before hitting the back of the net. It was the Gerrard-Alonso midfield partnership. Rock solid. Breathtaking. Crazy good. Always walking together.

'I've won the Champions League.' he tells the mop in front of him, staring intently. 'Me. Me and this lad I used to play on the Playstation with. Me and me team.' The captain armband had remained on his right arm still. He takes it out, kisses it, rolls it back up. 'This is ridiculous.' _That Shevchenko penalty. God must be a red._

He watches the rhythmical rise and fall of his chest through the semi-obscurity. Yes, he is now calm enough; he gets up, careful not to knock anything down in the process, and goes out of the room. He can hear the boys, now bellowing _The Fields of Anfield Road_ ; the heart and passion in the song seems to seep right through the walls. This is Liverpool.

It is, indeed. He tries to revive that moment, only a few hours earlier. It would be played, replayed, replayed in a myriad of TV shows, films, documentaries from now on; it was the stuff that legends are made of. His memory, however, couldn't recover half of everything that had happened.

He walks down the corridor towards the locker rooms. He feels his temples anxiously starting to pulse in the cadence of the song. Happily. He kissed the cup first; he claimed victory for himself, like he often claimed life. It covered him up. He glowed with the victory. Right now, he is that split second when his lips seemed to lay on the golden shoulder of happiness. It would stay with him; it was the stuff of legends. Afterwards it's all a blur - incandescent, ablaze, reviving. Red fireworks, shouting and singing, a sea of scarves, tears, his very own hands clutching the Big Ears and raising it above the top of the world. He had never felt such a surge of sheer existence, bolting through him, magnifying everything, falling into light. He found Xabi on his right, (he remembered rather vividly the '14' on his chest) and he leaned in (like a boat leans when all the weight is pushed on one side, when all the happiness inside him seem to pull him towards Xabi, he lost balance, and might have even drowned himself in this continuous tumbling of ecstasy) and kissed his friend. 

'Ah, there you are, there you are, mate!' they almost bump into each other on the corridor. Joy instantly flows out of their bodies and fills the space between them. They nod simultaneously, out of the same instinct. It is a singular nod, somehow hardwired in both of them, and it says _Thank you_ (it says _Gracias_ ), it says _I've never had such a friend_ , it says _You know what I mean to tell you_ , it says _Yes_.

He kissed him, but knows it was nothing of what the silly tabloids might say. Djimi already teased them about it twice, but luckily the Spaniard was quick to dismiss it. He probably understood. Steven was head over heels in love with Alex; but there was only one person who could feel the entirety of this experience as he did, and it was Xabi. He loved him for that, and assumed he was loved back, like two brothers who grow up together and end up safely tied by a bond harder than any chain in the world.

'Done for the night already?'

'I am going out to celebrate, with Nagore, yes. Have fun with the lads!'

He feels guilty for the kiss for a second. His cheeks seem to have sunk a little, flashing a bright red which rivals that of his shirt. Shamefully, he glances at his armband - he is the captain and he is going to have to learn to hold all those emotions together. But then he looks up at Xabi, and all the memories come tumbling down; this is the kid (the boy, the man.) from his childhood. They had learned how to play football together. They have been - **still are** \- amazing friends. He would know exactly what that kiss meant.

'Ta, you too, say hello to her from me.' And then, after a short break, he childishly blurts out 'We've won the Champions League!', his eyes glistening with joy and pride. Xabi laughs that quiet laugh of his. He says "Goodbye". Steven says nothing; they never needed much, did they. And the cup is waiting for him in the changing rooms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter didn't really "come soon". Promise to do better with the next one.

The silver medal shines brashly in the clutch of his trembling fist. He's clutching it too hard, he realises. This was no Istanbul. And it pains him. The miracle of Istanbul, the horrid nightmare of Athens. And he knows they could have done it again, _he_ could've done it again, they are a much better team now than in 2005. The boys come out of the showers, one by one, slipping out of the room like shadows on the walls in silence. He has already showered, but didn't find the strength to go into the team room. _This should be your skipper moment. This should be the time when you rise, and speak to them, and give back the confidence those damned Italians carried off together with the cup. It should be - but, God, I'll be their captain tomorrow; I can't, I can't always be the captain._ The realization washes through his whole being like a shower of pins; his identity shakes on its pedestal.

His first response had been anger. Futility. He was not used to feeling powerless. He felt incredibly lonely then, sitting close to the centre spot, lonely and furious, and he wished he still had time to jump into a tackle, break their Italian legs, spit in their faces and on UEFA's precious silver medals, because that was exactly what they were doing to him. It's his fault above all, he knows it better than anyone, and yet all this clamour was unnecesary and hardly bearable. But he has grown. He's Steven Gerrard, he is no longer the impulsive boy who kicked at the goal post every time he missed a free kick, and his anger on the pitch had slowly melted into a strong, visceral sorrow.

Xabi comes out of the shower, his eyes on his feet, his shoulders slouched in disappointment. Drops of water fall to the floor from his messy hair. He picks up a towel and starts wiping the water; there is bitterness in his movements, an uncharacteristic clumsiness. He looks at his medal sitting on the sweaty kit he left on the bench, folds it in a shirt and stuffs it in his bag. Steven watches him, follows him around the room, desperate to say something, to reach out somehow. He feels on the verge of tears, emotionally rather than physically; he finally catches his eye and inadvertently lets out a low, painheavy moan. Xabi's body turns immediately; it's almost his instinct to answer.

He walks to where Stevie is sat, and kneels in front of him. He gently takes the silver medal from the grasp of his hands and looks at it.

'You'll break it if you keep doing that', he smiles softly. Steven can't look him in the eyes. 'I hate it right now, you know, but I will probably wear it with pride one day.' He rolls the 'probably' off his tongue, like he usually does. 'There were only two teams in Europe which reached the final, and one of them was _our_ team, and _you_ captained it, and we went out there with our heads high and left similarly. There's nothing to be ashamed of, and not very much to regret.'

He clasps Stevie's hands in his. ' _You'll never walk alone._ You know the lyrics, no? _At the end of the storm, there's a golden sky_ , I think that's how it goes, yes, _and the sweet silver song of the lark._ ' He hums the melody. He's sad, but almost cheeky.

It sounds strange with his Spanish accent, Steven thinks. For a second, the Champions League sinks deep down among his thoughts, and he simply wonders if a Spaniard has ever spoken these words before. Probably not - or if he has, he didn't mean them like Xabi does. Here he is, a Scouser born and bred, and someone with a foreign accent is reminding him how the anthem of his club goes. How Scousers get up, take it on the chin, stand together and walk on. _This is why he gets me; he gets Liverpool Football Club. He has it in his blood. He's as much a Scouser as I am. God damn it, Xabi, I hope you never leave._

'It is, yeah. That's exactly how it is.'

'The fans are still singing it outside.'

'So they should. _A liverbird upon my chest, we are the men of Shankly's best._ ' he recites almost sheepishly, and looks at Xabi without knowing what to say, his eyes beseeching _Thankyouthankyouthankyou_ , his whole face radiating with gratitude. He squeezes his hands and gets up without another word, leaving Xabi to wipe off the water on his face and hair, off to give his captain's speech to the team.


	4. Chapter 4

The air feels dangerously close to snapping around them, and the silence is tediously thick, despite all the boys shuffling around, unpacking their stuff, quipping the odd joke in a low voice. All the voices melt into a uniform whisper, indeed, as it's hard not to notice that something is going on which must not be bothered. Something is up, and it's easy to tell. First training of the season, and the skipper shows up late, barely shakes any hands, and appears to merge with the walls the entire morning.

"We're real, very normal people, both on and off the field", Xabi had said in an interview a couple of months ago, "We have friends, we watch games together, and films", here he had chuckled, remembering how he had almost had to force Stevie to sit through _Casablanca_ , "we shop for groceries, we cook, and fix things around the house."

They were, indeed, normal people, and with this normality came the normal problems in a man's life. Sometimes he couldn't sleep. Sometimes he couldn't finish a book. Sometimes he wasn't sure what present to buy for his girlfriend, and they didn't always have salmon at his local supermarket. Sometimes he went out for dinner with his best friend and their girlfriends and something went terribly awry. Terribly. Beyond repair. That was when it happened, and how it all started rolling downhill - Alex didn't like him, not one bit. Her flashy personality didn't reflect well enough, didn't come out as lustrous, when she was next to this strange Spanish man, and she had carefully turned the whole thing upside down. Game well and truly over.

Xabi ties his shoelaces, in as much of a bad mood as his captain. They'd never been like this. They were inherently open to each other, it was a natural part of their relationship which had unfurled and grown ever since he was 16 years of age. They just _worked_ together ( _both on and off the field_ ), always twilled together; never overbearing, never constraining; had never had a fight, and every minor annoyance and trouble was immediately and without question brought to the table and dealt with. But now this silly tension seemed to have set camp between them, trumpets and flags blatant enough for everyone to see.

They make eye contact. Something in Xabi flinches. Yes, he is upset, he has all the reasons in the world to be so, but Stevie seems to shrink as well. They nod politely at each other. The entire room seems to have turned to stone; it feels like a cheap reality show. The eyes of Liverpool FC are frozen open, fixed on them. Stevie makes a slight gesture with his hand towards the pitch outside. He understands ( _I always understand_ ), hurries to pull his socks properly and follows him out. A collective breath seems to be let out behind them.

Steven Gerrard got married. Married to the lovely Alex Curran, who couldn't stand the all-too-composed, all-too-well-behaved Xabi Alonso. Steven Gerrard got married, having to keep quiet about it to his best mate, who was inevitably going to learn of it. Most likely from some sensationalist magazine. And then the dams would break. He'd hoped. Instead, they stayed up, coldly. The whole affair had turned into this hurtful wordless mess, for both of them.

They go out through the scent of freshly cut grass, walking hesitantly and silent towards a spot in the shade. The air is charged. Steven bites his lower lip nervously until he feels the metallic taste of blood and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He sits down on the grass; Xabi doesn't. He remains standing there in the balmy sunlight, his eyes overcast, his hands on his hips, clutching his shirt as he often does on the pitch when frustrated. 

'What the fuck is all this?' he spits. It breaks. Every word uttered with a tremendous weight, every word falls around Steven, loud and leaden. He shudders; Xabi never swore, not even when they were young. He hates all bad manners.

'I don't know what the fuck this is. It's. Look. Just sit down, will you.'

He listens this time, smoothly sitting himself next to Steven. Their training sneakers touch.

'I'm sorry, okay? I've said it before. It wasn't my decision, I'm not pleased with it, but you don't need to act like this. It doesn't just all go like that - bam, and we wipe everything clean.'

Xabi rests his head in his hands.

The sandwiches, the games on the side of the Mersey, the first Liverpool shirt, the first match, Istanbul, Casablanca, drunken parties, the FA cup, the wedding on TV, it all seems to ripple around in his mind, leading nowhere. He sighs, heavily.

'It was not a good thing to do.'

'Nah, it wasn't. It wasn't. It was a massive blunder.' _Is that what you want to hear? Do you want me to go on and on, apologizing for the rest of my bloody life? That's not how it works, Xabi._ 'What else do you want to hear?'

'I don't want to hear anything; I wanted to -'

'Kinell, Xabi.' _We can't do this_.

Silence, again. Breezing around them. It lights up possibilities, then puts them off, then lights them up again.

'I just wanted to be there, at your wedding, beacuse it was my friend's wedding. But we should work it, uh, work it out, no?' Xabi finally whispers. He smiles tentatively, and the smile seems a hand stretched towards Stevie; a bridge over their strong personalities, differences, distinct haughtiness.

He smiles back, the wrinkles on his forehead seeming to smooth out and leave place for better thoughts. It's not completely over yet, he knows well enough, and everything they have, to which these new months of silence now added up, is going to need more bandaging than just that. But for now it was good.

'Wanna go out for a bevvy after training?'

'Si, si, we could do that.'

And Steven, saying nothing more, raises and starts his light jog to get warmed-up.


	5. Chapter 5

'Gaffer says he wants to buy Barry.' Steven's hand hovers over the hot cup of tea, playing with the steam that curls around fingers. _I can't look at him_ , he realizes, and just goes on with his little game.

'When did he tell you that?'

'This morning. Called me in his office and all. It's far from a done deal, but it's what he wants. I thought I'd let you know.'

They both know what it means. The season was now over, the club was in a perpetual need of money, and Gareth Barry was a defensive midfielder - there was no way they could afford two players of this value in the squad, not when they played the exact same position. _Barry is quality, but Xabi... How the fuck can Rafa not see this?_ They both know what it means and that if Liverpool's bid is accepted, then this might be the last time they are together like this, like team mates and agelong friends. The thought is terrible - Steven looks up to Xabi for a second.

He's not sure he can bear this, he takes a sip from the coffee that burns his tongue, but he doesn't even flinch. Liverpool is home, he knows, it's as simple as that. From the incomprehensible accent to the unforgettable roar of the crowd, yes, just all that racous, impenetrable noise, it's home. He belongs here. The sights, the sounds, the passion. He's in love with every fragment of this place, he loves the sound of tyres on the wet asphalt, the silhouette of the liver bird in the rosy morning gleam, the Beatles playing on loop at the old record shop. And Rafa, the man who brought him here, is now opening the door and politely shoving him out.

'I don't want to go', he states. He just puts it out there. 'I just don't want to.'

 _Nor do I_ , Steven thinks. _I'd be fucking devastated_. He thinks he might be angrier than back in the 2007 Cup final. Things had been heading in the wrong direction for a long time, but now they just seemed to have smashed onto a wall, howling like the tide on the rocks. "I don't want to go". it cuts through him, it splits his spine in two, ice cold. He stops playing with his cup of tea.

'I told him I think you should stay; explained how, and why, but he said he thinks Barry would fit his views better. Bollocks, I say.' _You've been fitting his views for the past four years, and won a European Cup and the FA Cup in the process. You've been fitting all of our views and more._ 'Just can't get me head around it, Xabi.'

He couldn't. He had stormed out of the manager's office with characteristic immoderation. Had stopped a short while to calm down, then called his friend for what could easily be their last cup of tea ( _/coffee_ ) together. If Rafa's plans worked, Xabi could be shipped off in a couple of days. He had jumped in his car and driven aimlessly through the September rain for a good while as a means to cool the blood, then arrived in front of the cafe at the hour they'd chosen. He couldn't.

They drink slowly, in a pithy quietude, as if they were part of a strange ceremonial. They feel like pawns on the chess table of a strange deity, and they await his call in perfect silence. _Our friendship has always been remarkably quiet_ , Xabi thinks. _The good quiet_. It is the type of thing that Stevie would never notice. The coffee is good.

'He also told me Real Madrid are interested.' Bam. He shudders - it's a massive risk he's taking right now, and a massive gesture. He hopes Xabi understands. _Los Galacticos_. It's tempting for him even, though today he knows he could never **ever** leave Liverpool; but it's still perhaps the first thing a young boy who's passionate about football will dream about. Playing on the Bernabeu, in the magnificent white kit, alongside countless, countless legends of football. He could have kept this info to himself, but he had faith in Xabi and his love for Liverpool. This is how they had always been. His friend should know where he stands - and whether he was in red or white ( _or any other colour, you know_ ), he wouldn't walk alone.

Yes, he understands, because that's how their friendship works. It's twisted, shapeless, moulding unpretentiously into their hands, yet wholly reliable. It vibrates at the slightest change in their feelings, and every word, or gesture, or sigh reached the other end at an immesurable speed, crystal clear and shining with honesty. '

Real Madrid', Xabi rolls the words on his tongue, caught for a second under the spell of its sonority. 'Thank you. It means a lot. I belong here, though, and will stay for as long as I feel the manager wants and needs me.'

Steven Gerrard tries in vain to speak after that. He might not understand the silence, but he feels it, and dreads cracking it. He gets up, quietly and solemnly, and Xabi follows; they pay and leave their separate ways, praying it's only until tomorrow's training.


	6. Chapter 6

The door opens with a soft click, and Steven Gerrard comes out of the house in his shamefully fluffy slippers, with Lilly-Ella and Lexie each clinging to one his legs. The wind makes him shudder – which is funny, because it’s always windy in England, and yet – but he refuses to invite his friend inside. One thing leads to another; God knows what that might lead to. He shudders, and his insides desperately claw at his skin.There's a reason why he hates saying goodbye.

'I came to say goodbye', Xabi explains, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, childishly awkward He rubs his arm, smiles an almost guilty smile. 'I know it's late, and I'm sorry I bother you, but for some _mysterious_ reason I thought you might not come and say goodbye yourself. And I wanted it done.'

Stevie's face softens, warms, switches from 'Steven' to 'Stevie'. He ushers the girls inside, and steps down into the light of the street lamp. He looks around awkwardly, not knowing what to say; eventually he spots the football he keeps in the garden. His brow unfurls as he passes it to Xabi. _It's only fitting, eh. As good as any chat._

He thinks of asking Alex to make a sandwich for Xabi; no, scratch that, he thinks of going in himself to make Xabi a sandwich. He thinks of the years - as simple of that - he thinks of the years and feel the unbearable urge to heave them off his back. Pure, distilled ambition is what has been always carrying them around, but sometimes it’s hard to find the purpose in that. Sometimes it seems that others are doing better. Sometimes the years don’t bear down on people, but simply pass, foolishly and irregularly. Sometimes his childhood friend has a child ( _a son_ ; he winces; he stumbles; he catches himself) and a wife and has given up that oh-god-so-stupid haircut a good while ago, and the yellowish lamplight seems to trace wrinkles on his face too, but they are gentle and chiseled and quite beautiful.

They pass the ball slowly, feeling (wishing to feel?) the salty air of the Mersey in their lungs. Here is Xabi Alonso, leaving for Real Madrid.

'You're right, mate. I was never good at it. It's always either a trifle, or all too painful.'

It’s true; Stevie hardly ever gives anything up, be it friends or family or cups. He still doesn't know exactly how to do it, or why it should ever happen to him in life, something or someone going away. _He has to give **me** up now, and all that I brought to the team. And there’s nothing he can do, is there. And I can feel him reaching out, and fumbling, and eventually he'll give up, but when._

He kicked the ball, he got it back, he kicked it again, he laughed. The 2008 move hadn't happened; the Barry transfer affair had fallen through, and Xabi Alonso had remained Liverpool's defensive midfielder, but always followed now by a sense of not being wanted and of not belonging anymore. He still had his mornings in the cafeteria with Steven and Jamie, and the extraordinary European nights - this he was sure of, there would be no crowd like the Anfield one, none, ever - but he had always needed people to care for and about him. It wasn't arrogant or egocentric, it was a need born out of humanity and a sense of what is right. He knew he was a very good footballer, quite probably Liverpool's absolute star, had Stevie not been there (but he did not bear a grudge, not ever). He knew he had done absolutely nothing wrong. He knew he needed (and deserved) for someone to cushion his fall – if that ever happen – but that Liverpool would not provide it. He’d been triplesaulting flawlessly for years, but when asking for a safety net, was told to shut up and do his job.

Then came the end of the 2008-2009 season, and this time the manager was bent on selling him. It happened. Like a little click.

He kicks the ball back, hitting it a bit stronger than intended.

'Ah, is that how you wanna play?' he hears Stevie's short laugh, and instantly sees the ball flying back towards him, a round shadow in the desolate light. He catches it as quickly as Stevie had sent it; the world is pleasantly swirling around him.

It had happened. They told him straight in the face that they would sell him, so in an attempt to salvage the last bit of dignity he handed in a transfer request and bought the quickest ticket to Madrid. It was all very short and rather anticlimactic - painfully so. He had imagined he would get a final game with the team, that he could go to Melwood and say goodbye to the tea lady, that he'd have time to breathe Liverpool in before he left and keep it canned until his next arrival. None of this had happened. The supporters had chanted his name, had wanted him to stay, but that's not how it worked. And now he couldn't leave without saying goodbye to this one man, to this man who would’ve kept his arms outstretched, no matter for how long, to catch him if he fell. So here he was.

The game soon gathers a bit more momentum than your average kickabout in the garden; they're both running at full speed around each other, passing the ball, trying a trick or two, rushing into space and shouting like young boys. Caught in the moment, Steven flies into one of his signature tackles, but remembers quickly that he's in his garden, not in Anfield, and that man he’s playing against is not one he'd ever want to hurt. He suddenly changes direction before he can hit either Xabi or the ball and ends up in a ridiculous slide on the grass, completely without purpose. Xabi gets him up and they both start laughing heartily. It fills some sort of void. They laugh to say _I will miss you_ , it's at the back of their heads every single moment, and not just that, but the endless stretch of lonely years ahead, they laugh and it rings on the streets and it says _Nodon’tnopleaseI’mhere_. Xabi's gaze falls on his watch and his laughter is abruptly cut short.

'I need to go.'

Stevie stops. Shakes his head slowly. It’s yet another strange day, this, when things didn’t go according to his immense will. Not exactly. He thought he had made peace with the thought. He was certain that he was fine with what was happening. Rubbish. His eyes search around him, seemingly trying to find something that would make it all better. He stands there in silence, a lean shadow on the pavement, wringing his hands.

'Stevie, I need to go, say something.' He sighs; mutters under his breath a curse for all the years that seemed to have built all this up, to have stacked such amazing, outstanding things for him and Xabi ( _and they were breathtaking, and they were infinite, but is this when they’re supposed to end_ ), making a skyhigh tower of expectations and failing to put the last pieces into place.

He feels all of it crumbling down to the ground; yet ambition arches its overpowering back again, and he remembers - they mustn't. _What we have is ours to keep._

'It's strange. You came here, you went away, you came back. Now you're going away. For years.'

'Don’t... you know. We'll talk on the phone, rant about football. I'll watch you play, you'll watch me. We'll know about each other, as we always have. And then you'll be amazed when I return here in a few months, with a tan and my broken English...' he tries to chuckle, though his voice is cold and distant. 'We'll work it out, again, no? Don't be sad.'

He puts out his hand, and Stevie shakes it for a second (they're overwhelmingly adult right now, yet still the fearful children who were separated before, now alive with the hope that space would mean nothing. Their friendship had held together, tighter every day, for the entirety of 10 years, and it was one thing worth holding on to.) then pulls him in a hug. They sit like that for lengthy seconds, thinking ( _I don't want to go_ / _I don't want you to go_ ), fearing, still pulling that elastic matter of their friendship closer and closer to themselves.

' _Hasta luego_ , we say in Spanish. It means "see you soon"'.

' _Hasta luego_ ', Stevie repeats amused, but immediately shakes his head. 'Nah, sorry, no. I need to say it me way. Goodbye, Xabi. We'll meet around before long.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for putting up with my cheesiness and bad writing, waiting approximately 50 years between updates, and, well, reading. Thanks :) I'd also thank the person whom I wrote these for, but I'm bad with computers and have no idea how to insert links.


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